Rumbles
by trufflemores
Summary: 5x11 reaction fic. Angst. Blaine is stuck in an emotional spiral after losing Nationals. Kurt is there to help him weather the storm. Trigger warnings: mentions of canonical character death. Kurt/Blaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

It had been exactly sixteen hours since they'd lost Nationals (_lost_) and Blaine couldn't sleep. He couldn't even move from where he was frozen on the couch in his living room, gazing listlessly at the scrapbook that he'd compiled to celebrate his senior year, one hand pressed wordlessly against one of the last blank pages. The tears were burning at the backs of his eyes but he refused to let them fall. He'd made it past the perfunctory smiles and relieved hugs as he'd greeted his parents at the door hours ago; sitting alone in the silence was almost therapeutic, almost crushing, and mostly somewhere in between.

He ran his fingers gently along the very last page in the book, wondering idly how he should end it. Pictures from their LA trip immediately sprung to mind, a tired smile curling his lips as he recalled the half dozen selfies Sam had dragged him into and the countless group pictures he'd been manhandled and playfully corralled into. Even as the tears drifted noiselessly down his cheeks, he realized how awful it would be to tape those pictures down, jubilant and expectant and so _hopeful _knowing the inevitable outcome.

He wanted to be wrong. He clung to the hard edges of the book and closed his eyes, willing his breathing to remain soft and steady as he pleaded for the memories crowding his thoughts to be _wrong. _He couldn't get their faces out of his mind. It didn't matter that Throat Explosion had been screaming with joy; Blaine hadn't heard a sound in the midst of the New Directions, the white noise crowding out all other impressions.

And then, hours later, sitting on the plane with the rest of them, it sunk in.

_We lost._

_We lost Nationals._

And the tears just would not stop coming.

Because it hadn't been about them. It _had, _of course it had, it was meant to be the triumphant send-off for the seniors and a penultimate celebration for the younger members. It was supposed to be the beginning of something great and not the end of something far too soon. It was supposed to be _their _legacy, their triumph over adversity one last time, their shout into the darkness that would be emblazoned in teh choir room forever.

They should have won. They'd _needed _to win. And instead they had come in second, and the world had come crashing down.

Blaine didn't even remember most of the ride home. There were times when he'd look out the window and see the blue sky all around them, clouds drifting vaguely across his field of vision and small towns and big cities drifting idly below. He'd felt small, then, looking out at the world and knowing how much it held, how easily it could take away. He felt very, very small, and he was glad that Sam was asleep beside him, because he didn't think he could have explained why he was crying.

It was so many things. It was one thing alone. It was the high point of his senior year, and the most devastating one. It was grand; it was awful. It was glory; it was pain.

It was realization that a world existed beyond the Glee club and that the fever dream that was the New Directions was really, truly, and finally over.

Flipping over that last page in his scrapbook, wondering how many times he'd run his fingers over its smooth texture, Blaine considered tearing it out. He half-wanted to: he already had pictures of Sam and Tina and Artie and himself squeezed into their graduation outfits. He'd been saving the very last page for a Nationals' win, an end to all the struggles that they had endured throughout the year. They'd been through _so much, _and graduation marked a new beginning, but nationals marked the true end.

It was supposed to be their moment, their siren's song.

Blaine felt sick with the realization that it never, ever was and never would be.

Just as he was dozing somewhere between pain and disinterest, someone knocked on the front door.

It took him a moment to register the sound as something more than an idle thought in his imagination, conjured to comfort and bleeding into the real world. He wanted it _so much _that it wasn't until the second knock that he gently closed the scrapbook and set it aside.

By the third knock, he unfolded himself from the couch and climbed to his feet, staggering over to the door and pulling it open before the next series of knocks could begin. Half of his sleep-heavy brain warned him that it couldn't be anything good when his vision cleared and he almost lost his footing in sheer surprise.

"Kurt," he blurted out, loud in the silence, his surprise punched out of him with a grunt as Kurt threw his arms around him and hugged him so tightly it _hurt._ "Kurt, what are you - "

"I'm sorry."

Every word that Blaine wanted to say stuck in his throat abruptly. Every muscle froze; his breath caught in his chest; and of their own accord his arms wrapped around Kurt's shoulders as he clung to him and made an _animal_ noise of pain, shaking with the force of his grief as he held on as tightly as he could.

Kurt didn't try to quiet him as he shook with wordless emotion. He didn't even try to hide the dampness blossoming on Blaine's shoulder as they stood together just inside the doorway for far too long and nowhere near long enough, somehow having enough clarity of mind that he could ease the door shut behind them. He didn't speak at all for a long time, guiding them to the couch with slow, shuffling steps and letting Blaine fist his cashmere sweater to ruins, his apologies bleeding out of him as Kurt held him and held him and held him together.

"I'm sorry," Blaine said at last, Kurt's hand rubbing his back and shoulders slowly, soothingly. "I'm so sorry, Kurt."

Kurt didn't say anything, resting his chin on top of Blaine's head as Blaine shuddered and curled up against him, clinging to his sweater. It was beyond him to be dazed or amazed or anything at all at Kurt's presence: it simply _was._

Kurt was there because he needed him to be there. So it is written, so it shall be.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated huskily, voice raw with emotion.

Kurt didn't respond immediately, and Blaine let the silence stretch between them, cheek pressed to Kurt's shoulder as Kurt rubbed his back, up and down, tender and soft.

"I don't need a Nationals' win to be happy, Blaine," he said at last. Then, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath, he added quietly, "And neither does he." Curling both arms around Blaine, holding him close and gathering his strength, Kurt continued. "Glee club has never been about the trophies. It's about . . . finding yourself and who your friends are and what things _matter _in life and that - the end doesn't define you. The end doesn't _change _what happened. I know that. And Finn - he knew it, too. That's why he loved it. Because it was never about a trophy; it was always about doing something that he _loved. _And he loved you guys. He loved us all. _That's_ what matters. And, listen, if there's one thing in the world that I need, it's _you._"

The forgiveness, the pain, and the aching love in Kurt's voice - for the Glee club that had done so much for him, for his family, for _Finn _- proved to be Blaine's undoing as he sniffed and coughed and tried not to cry on Kurt's sweater again. "We just - wanted to make it special. For him," he managed at last.

"And it was," Kurt said, soft but fierce, and then they were sitting across from each other because Blaine couldn't _not _look at him, watery blue eyes and all. "It was special, Blaine. It always will be. But now it's - it's time to take a breath and realize that it's not over. Your life isn't over," Kurt added softly, lacing his fingers with Blaine's and giving them a fierce squeeze. "You're going to come to New York and we'll live together and we'll learn how to make things work and it'll be amazing. And Glee club will be . . . it _is _ours_. _Forever. Okay?"

Blaine drew in a deep breath before nodding, unable to keep the waver from his voice as he echoed, "Okay."

Kurt gave him a moment to regroup, shuddering breaths slowly steadying before he nodded again and repeated, "Okay."

"Come here," Kurt said, and Blaine went, letting himself be held and squeezing Kurt's arms in return. "We'll get through this," Kurt whispered, and for the first time since he'd come back from LA, Blaine didn't feel numb or sick or world-weary.

He felt relieved, because even with the storm bearing down on him, Kurt was there with him to weather it, and that was all that he needed to know that he would make it through it.

There would be questions in the morning and apologies and explanations and breakfast and sore necks and tired eyes and sick hearts. There would be longer-than-normal hugs and intertwined hands and murmured talks about parents and the absence thereof and many, many kisses. There would be coffee and kindness, fake smiles and real ones, reminders of good and bad and ugly things as they looked through the scrapbook together.

There would be pain, nostalgia, triumph, and, eventually, peace.

But for now, they had each other alone, and that was enough for both of them.


End file.
